


Dirty Little Secret

by Losille



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF
Genre: BDSM, D/s, F/M, Sex Club
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-02-03 00:22:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12737283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Losille/pseuds/Losille
Summary: What happens when one of the most prolific Loki erotica fanfiction writers turns out to be Tom Hiddleston? This.





	Dirty Little Secret

**Author's Note:**

> BDSM. Again, nothing too intense, but the most overtly I’ve ever written it. Totally out of my comfort zone. This is merely a first part. There will be a few chapters, I don’t know how many, but not a ton. Just a writing exercise. Enjoy!

Lilia supposed, for a secret sex club, it wasn’t at all what she expected, from the outside or the inside. Outside, the building sat squarely in the center of business, in the ritzy Buckhead area of Atlanta, a nondescript stone edifice left over from before the Civil War. The ancient stone had been cleaned, and the necessary renovations were done to keep it up to code, but otherwise the building was sedate and boring. It didn’t draw the eye, or require a second look. It was easy to pass on the sidewalk without ever thinking about it. Without ever caring about what happened on the other side of the huge dark wood doors facing the street. In fact, Lilia nearly  _did_  miss it except that the driver of the black sedan that had delivered her to the location pointed to the door for her.

Inside was no different. Nothing gave away that this was the scene of a seedier sort, of lust and sin. She expected to see at least one scantily clad woman—or man—perhaps in latex or leather. Maybe nothing at all. Heavy, drivingly erotic music didn’t pound through the speakers; a crackly recording of Billie Holiday did. People weren’t writhing around on the floor. The sounds of moans and screams were inaudible in the lobby, and also in the sedate bar, where the hostess stood staring at Lilia expectantly.

“The Gentleman has not arrived yet,” the hostess said, smoothing her palms down her thighs covered in a plain black dress that ended at her knees.

Lilia glanced down at the woman’s feet, thinking the strappy black stilettos were probably some sort of fetish thing, but they looked very expensive. And they had red soles, so probably Louboutin if they were real fashion, not fetish.

“He is running behind and requested that you wait here.” The tone of her voice made her sound like a cross teacher, ready to reprimand a student for daydreaming. “You will be collected when he is ready for you.”

“Sure,” Lilia said, the word sticking in her throat. She swallowed a few times and licked her lips. “I’ll have a drink while I wait.”

The hostess’ ice blue eyes blinked with boredom. “The Gentleman wished me to remind you that you’re not to have more than one alcoholic beverage.”

Lilia’s cheeks flushed with heat and she ducked her head slightly. It wasn’t the first time The Gentleman had issued orders to her, but it was the first time someone had ever spoken to her in such a way. Usually, his commands were received via text, e-mail or internet messenger. They hadn’t strayed beyond that. Not until now. Not until they both realized they were going to be in the same place at the same time and agreed to meet offline.

Her stomach fluttered with anxiety, twisting and releasing. Excitement prickled her skin, but nerves made her perspire just enough to be uncomfortable in the air-conditioned bar. “Of course, thank you.”

The hostess wasted no more of her precious time with Lilia and made a show of swinging her hips all way back to the front reception area. When Lilia lost sight of her, she swallowed her nerves again, and carefully perched on the edge of a barstool covered in soft blue crushed velvet. The bartender was an attractive twenty-something, broad-shouldered and big-muscled, and attentive. He slid a cocktail napkin onto the bar in preparation for her drink order and laid his big hands flat on the bar, arms stretched out, showcasing his fit figure.

“What can I get you, beautiful?” He winked and gave her a toothy grin, though she didn’t feel the slightest bit threatened by it. In a place like this, where memberships were invitation only, and guests were strictly vetted before being permitted entrance, employees faced even tougher standards. Funny, though, that at a place like this she felt much safer than she ever had at a regular club or even walking down the street. In here, any fantasy or fetish wasn’t taboo. Anything went, after the conferral of a membership.

Here, women were respected. Safe words were nonnegotiable, and rules stringently adhered to. No one was going to catcall her unless she gave them leave to do with a subtle sign, such as a green pin affixed to her clothing. Today, she wore red, signifying that she was someone else’s, in the absence of The Gentleman’s physical protection.

She contemplated alcohol to ease her nerves, but The Gentleman had already warned her he expected her to be clear enough to fully consent to him. “Actually, a water only,” she said.

The bartender set the water on the napkin and moved on down to another person sitting on the very end nursing a glass of wine.  Lilia sighed and traced her thumbnail along the dark wood grain on the bar top, lifting her head to peek around the quiet room again.  She and the wine drinker were the only ones in here besides the employees, but supposed that made sense in the middle of a weekday afternoon. Nights and weekends probably saw a bit more activity.

She sipped the icy water and turned in her seat, surveying the dark wood paneling and light blue upholstery decorating every corner of the room. Heavy velvet drapes of varying blues and silvers partitioned some areas from other areas, breaking up an otherwise hollow room of chocolate leather booths and square tables. The wood-paneled walls boasted many works of art, some she recognized as reprints. Others looked authentic, and probably expensive. That Picasso had to be real. So was the Kandinsky. Beyond that, she didn’t know.

Lush. Decadent. If Jay Gatsby had owned a sex club, well, this was what it would have looked like. A mix between a 20s speakeasy and an English gentleman’s club—the mostly nonsexual kind. It oozed money and cried class. Which wasn’t surprising, considering the rumored clientele.

Of course, though, that didn’t make her any less anxious. Not when she thought about The Gentleman and who he might actually be; not that she would ever know, really, because he had requested she be blindfolded when she was brought to him. That had always been his rule—no faces, not on the few photos they’d shared with each other, not now that they were going to meet. To her, that offered a couple possibilities. Either he was someone Very Important and did not want to risk exposure, despite the club’s extensive nondisclosure agreements, or he simply had a thing about using a body and not wanting to connect more deeply through someone’s eyes. Or, maybe, he just wasn’t confident in his looks, though she didn’t think that was the case. A Dom had to be self-assured to be a good Dom.

At least that’s what her friend, Phaedra, had said when she had given Lilia a rundown on how the scene really worked many years prior.  The Gentleman had agreed when she asked him. Frankly, she didn’t care about looks. She cared about how someone made her feel, if he could reach into her brain and tickle other parts of her.  Which was exactly what The Gentleman had done with his words, with his writing. Men who wrote amazing fanfiction probably weren’t the incredibly attractive type anyway, right? But they  _were_ smart. They were confident.

And they were also geeky enough to tick every other box on her list of needs. He was especially so, here in Atlanta for the weekend to attend DragonCon.

Like her.

And he certainly knew his way around a woman’s body, or at least knew exactly what a woman wanted, if the computer-melting erotica he’d written was anything to base an opinion on.

His membership to this internationally located club explained the rest. With membership, he certainly wasn’t a shy violet for his sexual appetite. It made a searing tingle blossom in her sex just thinking about what he was going to do her. The play online had only been a taste, a fruitless exercise when what she had really wanted was him in person. Hands and toys could only go so far to acting out what he had written to her. She  _needed_  to feel the sting of a hand on her ass, the tug of the restraints, to fully understand.

The glacial hostess returned then to stand at Lilia’s elbow, still no smile to be found on her face. Lilia wondered if she hated her job or if she loved it, giving the air of someone either bored or overly serious about her position. It was difficult to tell, with nothing out of place seeping from behind her mask of indifference, everything about her in sharp military precision.

Lilia thought she probably looked like a slob compared to this woman. Lilia, too, wore a black dress, but it wasn’t expensive or overly body conscious. Her shoes were modest and professional one-inch heels—the same she’d worn to work because she knew better than to waste space in her luggage that she rather fill with cosplay accessories.

She’d also left her black hair down and wild to air dry, running late after arriving at her hotel and in desperate need of a shower. Her morning conference call with opposing counsel on one of her current court cases had lasted too long to do anything worthwhile with it. Fortunately, the convention wasn’t set to officially begin until tomorrow, so getting through Downtown traffic had been a cinch, allowing her much needed time to get into the right headspace for this afternoon. To her, much more important than perfecting an elaborate hairdo.

The hostess was a marble statue, formed, unmoving, cold. Lilia was untamed and rough, like the swirling Kandinsky across the room.

“Come,” she said, crooking a thin finger with an unblemished French manicure toward herself.

Lilia silently followed the woman, suddenly imagining herself being marched to the gallows by an executioner in some medieval tableau. Maybe she was. She’d asked for this, after all. She  _wanted_  this. Wanted  _him_. She wanted to feel what it would be like to be completely dominated by another human being, and not in that crazy Christian Grey way. She knew there might be crops or shackles. Something. Nothing too intense—they’d mutually agreed—for this first time. It was the  _not_  knowing exactly she was about to face, though, that both strangely excited and terrified her.

The hostess led her down a long hall on the left to an elevator with golden doors, which led them up two floors and let out into another silent hallway. Decorated in the same soft blues and chocolates of the main floor, it somehow gave off a sense of warmth despite what went on behind the nondescript doors.

Lilia’s heart thumped erratically in her chest and a hard knot formed in her throat, forcing her to swallow between breaths. Her palms itched with nerves. And her breasts… her breasts were already tight and aching. Was she really about to do this?  _Could_  she do this?

“When you go in, you will undress,” the hostess began, drawing her from her thoughts. “Down to your underthings, per The Gentleman’s request. There is a robe for your use, if you wish.”

Lilia licked her lips. “Yes, I know. We discussed this already.”

“Of course,” the hostess replied. “A sensible approach. When you are finished undressing, you will kneel on the ground in proper presentation pose. Then I will place the blindfold on you.”

Lilia sucked in a breath and held it, puffing out her cheeks, willing the flutter in her chest to even out. Was it crazy to be trusting a random person from the internet, even one she’d spent nearly a year communicating with, learning about each other, discussing their kinks? Could you ever truly know a person like that? It seemed dubious to her, but she thought about all the clients she’d represented in their divorce cases.  Even  _they_ never truly knew each other. Plenty of them had quite the secrets they’d lived to hide, doing so for ten… twenty years in a marriage, sleeping in the same bed as the other. So, was a relationship made via the internet any better?

They stopped, at last, in front of a door at the very end of the hallway; nothing denoted it as a special room, simply stamped with a descending number in gold-plated numerals showing “301”. The hostess knocked, received no answer, and nodded to herself before she opened the door.

This, too, wasn’t what Lilia had been expected. She expected black and red, leather and latex, whips and chains, maybe a cross or two. Maybe those were brought in on request. Maybe those rooms were different. Their room—this room—looked as though it were little more than a posh hotel room… or, at least, the anterior room of a suite. There was no bed.

But there  _were_  plenty of flat surfaces in the form of large ottomans and benches, cushioned with easily cleaned coverings. There were a few wingback chairs in front of a dormant fireplace and a crushed velvet chaise accented with small pillows. Floor space was ample, covered with a plush rug over a sealed concrete floor. A wet bar across the room had a few trays of snacks and beverages, but nothing else. Though cinnamon air fresheners tried to cover the scent of cleaning products, it wasn’t entirely successful. This, more than anything, instantly calmed her instead of being off-putting. Of course, they’d take care of a sex club for those with untold wealth, but it still eased her nerves just a little more knowing they kept the place up to the highest standards.

Silly, she thought, that that was the one thing that would do it for her. Make her the most comfortable.

“Undress now,” the hostess said.

Lilia glanced at her babysitter askance, with a slight shake of her head. She’d never been one to shy away from her own nudity, but it was still weird to reach behind her and pull down the zipper of her own dress. Maybe this was part of the scene? The warm up? They’d talked about public nudity, how it wasn’t a limit for her in smaller quantities. Perhaps that's what this was? Was he, too, watching this from elsewhere?

She tossed the dress over the back of one of the chairs and kicked her shoes off beneath it. They weren’t sexy like Ms. Hostess’ shoes, so she decided to leave them. The chilled air around her drew goosebumps out of her flesh and pebbled her nipples tighter; she silently thanked the forward thinking that made her go braless. Elsewise, she’d be suffering already. She wanted to leave that for the bulk of the scene.

Maybe, though, this was the scene? He wasn’t anywhere to be found, but she could still feel his presence. Feel his words, though she’d never spoken to the man beyond typed correspondence. Was this what it was really like? The  _thought_  of it—of him—was more powerful than the physical acts?

“Do you require the robe?” asked the hostess, holding a folded black satin robe out to her.

Lilia chewed on her lip. What was the point anyway? She’d come this far. Why not go with the flow? Most of the material she’d read—and she’d read  _a lot_  in preparation to enter this lifestyle even as a spectator-sometimes-participator—had subs and slaves naked and kneeling for the beginning of a scene. At least that part of that horrible book series was true. And he was just going to take it off anyway.

“No, I’m fine,” Lilia said. Her voice sounded brittle, wavy. She cleared her throat and stepped into the middle of the room, carefully kneeling onto the carpet and situating herself in a semi-comfortable position. Nothing too bad. She had spent much more painful time on her knees in a Catholic church during Sunday masses.

A second later, soft opaque fabric covered her eyes, completely blocking from view the rest of the room. The hostess knotted the blindfold once, then twice, the air shifting around Lilia’s nude body as the other woman surveyed her work to make sure she had succeeded.

“Can you see anything?” she asked.

Lilia shook her head. No, it was dark as pitch, even with her eyes open and eyelashes scratching against the fabric.

“Good.” Finally, there was a smile in the other woman’s voice. “I can see what The Gentleman sees in you.”

She wanted to question her further, but didn’t have the time as the woman moved away and the sound of the door opening found her ears.

“I will return to remove the blindfold when your time with The Gentleman is finished,” the hostess said. “Unless he chooses to do it himself.”

Right,  _that_. Lilia didn’t think it would happen. He’d been too adamant about remaining relatively anonymous. But there was always a chance…

The door closed with a click, leaving Lilia in complete silence. At least, she thought it was complete silence. As she relaxed into her position with her hands on her thighs, palms up, her other senses picked up things. She could hear the air shut off and turn on—otherwise so whisper quiet she wouldn’t have noticed—over the blood rushing in her ears. Her face was hot with a permanent blush, her skin on fire, and she hadn’t even spent any personal time with this man. The carpet on her knees dug into her skin, the fibers scraping uncomfortably but not unpleasantly. It was a nice feeling, really. In her nose, the cinnamon grew stronger, filling her mouth with the taste. Her stomach rumbled with the realization that it really, really craved ginger snaps now.

Goodness, it was almost too much.

She closed her eyes against the blindfold, slowing sucking in a stream of air for ten seconds, holding it for seven, then blowing it out through her pursed lips for five. She did this over and over, like she did during the hot yoga classes Phaedra and she attended every Tuesday and Thursday evening. Instantly, she was calm. Cool.

_Ready._

As if on cue, the door clicked again and opened, sucking air out of the room in a vacuum.

_The Gentleman._

It was almost what she felt like, knowing who was there. That  _he_  was there. Like she’d suddenly released every bit of energy she possessed and transferred it all to him.

Fuck, this was really happening.

“Welcome to Atlanta, Lilia,” said he, in a deep voice that made every hair on her neck rise.

She lifted her head, despite having been told to present with her eyes trained down, even with the blindfold. The accent, the mellifluousness of it. The timbre. The purring, caressing quality of it. She  _knew_ that voice. She just knew it. She’d listened to it… or to something like it too many times to count.

Was it him? How could it be him? Maybe someone incredibly skilled at imitation? Wasn’t there that guy on Tumblr who made all the fangirls’ panties wet by reading some of their fiction in his voice? Was  _that_  him or was it really just a voice actor working on his imitation? She’d once divulged to him she’d gotten off by listening to the accent, maybe this was part of the scene, just for her.

The question, the ultimate question, was on the tip of her tongue to ask him.  _Are you Tom Hiddleston?_ But she couldn’t find the breath or the will to do it. Besides, she’d already fucked up and moved. And she didn’t know if he would ever actually answer her or stop this before they even began if she voiced it.

A low rumble of laughter followed. It didn’t confirm, but it seemed satisfied. She felt him beside her, the tip of a leather shoe against her bare knee. After a wave of cinnamon air with his movements, a pleasant masculine cologne filled the space in front of her, warm and citrusy. A large palm touched the crown of her head, strong fingers fanning out over her skull and exerting the lightest force to move her head back into the preferred position. “Eyes on the floor. Don’t move until I tell you.”

Lilia swallowed. He said it firmly, but there was a measure of fondness that made her shiver and her pussy wetter. Like he cared, and this wasn’t some meaningless scene to him. It calmed her again, but it also made her stomach twist.

“Good girl,” he purred again, his fingers traveling down her face, skimming her cheek, brushing her lips with the faintest almost non-touch. Her mouth fell open in an apparent pant, with absolutely no control on her part. How did he do that? He laughed again. “Are you ready to begin?”

Lilia gulped. Yes. Yes, she was ready, God help her. A little in over her head, but more than ready.

“Yes, sir.”


End file.
